A simple trip to a tea shop has started a chain reaction of fear, danger and perhaps death. Teresa's peaceful days are going to come to a crashing halt at any moment. Who would want to harm Patrick now?

Disclaimer: I own none of these characters. They are the babies of Bruno Heller.

Blood Is Thicker Than Water

Chapter 2 All We Have Is Our Memories

The tightly bound body in the seat had not moved in almost 3 hours. The large silent man positioned next to Patrick got up to check on his prisoner, concerned that if too much of the drug was ingested, it might be killing their prize. He stood over his captive and lifted the hood slightly. Patrick's eyes were firmly shut, his mouth dry and flaky, but when prodded with the end of a gun to the ribs, a slight moan escaped from his mouth. Satisfied that Jane would survive the flight, the guard dropped the hood back down over the prisoner's head and returned to his seat.

Patrick's hands and feet were tingling. It was the odd, painful tingle that comes from sleeping or sitting in a confined space restricting blood flow to a limb. In this case the pain building in his hands and feet was due to the cramped space at the back of the jet, the exit of the sedative from his bloodstream, and the too-tight zip ties on his wrists. As physical awareness was incrementally returning to his body, his brain was also waking up. The drug was finally wearing off, leaving Patrick both in extreme pain and mentally confused. He could now hear the jet engines, and sleepily wondered how he had managed to fall asleep on a plane.

"Why am I flying somewhere?" he thought, trying to make sense of the foggy state of his memory. "Is Teresa with me?" he worried.

Awakening to his surroundings more fully, he opened his eyes only to see blackish filtered light. He jolted upright when he realized his head was covered with a sack of some sort. He tried to reach up to remove it, but his hands were tightly bound together, restrained by a seatbelt. His heart rate sped up as he tried to sort out his inexplicable situation. The questions quickly forming in his mind rushed at him in a jumble, "where am I? how did I get on a plane? what day is it? why am I trussed up like a criminal?"

As he tried to think through each question, he suddenly remembered a quote that he had long ago disregarded. Didn't Dennis Abbott once tell him he would have preferred that Patrick return home to the States as a prisoner with a sack over his head? Could Abbott be fulfilling some wish left behind on the island? No. NO! This was not delayed retribution from Dennis. They were good now, friends - equals!

This was …. something else.

Patrick sensed movement close by. Another person? He turned his head and spoke.

"Hello? Any one there?" he quipped lightly.

No reply.

"Can you at least grunt so I know you are real and not just extra baggage?" he tried again.

Nothing.

The stillness all around him, except for the loud droning of the engines, unnerved Patrick. He was having a hard time sorting out his thoughts. He decided to try to construct a timeline in his mind. What was the last thing he remembered that made sense? Patrick calmed himself down with some breathing exercises, and then started to open the doors of his memory palace.

He clearly saw Teresa's lovely face smiling at him…. at breakfast? On what day? Maybe today, or was it yesterday? Patrick had no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious. It may only have been a couple of hours, and it may have been a few days if he was being continuously drugged. Think Patrick! Think! He had no way of telling the passage of time, but gradually his body told him in a most unmistakable way. He felt the need to use the men's room. If that was the case, he could not have been unconscious for more that 4 or 5 hours at the very most. OK, this all went down today. Good news, except for having to pee….. He would have to address that issue very soon.

Trying once again to reconstruct his day mentally, he conjured up memories of a typical day. These days he would get up with Lisbon, eat breakfast with her and then work around the cabin. He would make himself a lunch and then spend some time sitting and thinking down by the pond. Several times a week he would arrange to meet Teresa at the office and then go for lunch somewhere interesting in Austin. Once a week he would visit his favourite tea shop and buy his supply from Helene, nice girl, knowledgeable about unusual teas, and friendly. Something stirred in his memory. He tried to reach back into it and find whatever was not feeling right about this line of thought.

Helene, the tea shop. Helene…

Helene was not there today. She was not working when he dropped in at the tea shop. There was someone new there instead. In training she said, happy to help you she said, here have a sample of this new Tibetan Oolong tea sir….

Heart pounding in fear, he tried staying with the feeling as well as the memory of this train of thought. Patrick had a flash vision of falling to the floor and looking around for help. The door opened with a bell ringing, and then… he was on this jet. At least the mystery of his abduction was revealing itself to him. That girl, Silvia, she must have spiked his tea with the drug that was so debilitating. But why?

Fully awake and very uncomfortable now, Patrick felt like he was suffocating. The air he had to breathe through that foul sack was stale and damp. He dearly wished he could just yank it off and take a lungful of clean cool air. His mouth felt like cotton and his throat was unnaturally dry.

"Any chance I could have some water and visit the john?" he called out to anyone close by.

Still no reply from his silent watchers. This was getting annoying, so it was time to take matters into his own hands, or feet. Lifting his foot he kicked out to the right, where he felt the presence of someone or something. His shoe connected with a shin bone and he heard a loud curse in an unknown language spring from a man very close by. Before he could celebrate his small victory at detecting his bodyguard, a fist pounded into his midsection, catching him by surprise. Doubling over in pain, he gasped for breath. Waiting to see if more blows were to follow, he was surprised when the sack over his face was lifted up slightly, just to his nose. Then he got a faceful of cold water, none of which he managed to swallow. The sack was then dragged back over his face and silence resumed.

Feeling vulnerable, and scared, Patrick decided to give it one more try regardless of the danger to himself.

"I have to use the men's room. You should let me go or it is going to get very messy here. Your choice. I can only wait so long, and my time is pretty much used up. And you won't like the end result if you ignore me much longer."

Hoping his bodyguards understood his English, he sat waiting for their decision. Mumbled conversation confirmed his suspicion that they did indeed speak English and now had to make a decision on their own. There was no one to tell them what to do. There was much quiet discussion and just when Patrick thought he would burst, his seatbelt was roughly unclipped and he was hauled to his feet and dragged down the aisle to a small bathroom. His hands were kept zip-tied but his burlap sack was quickly removed as he was shoved into the small bathroom. The door was slammed shut and secured from the outside, leaving Patrick free at last to take a deep breath of real unfiltered air. He quickly relieved himself and washed his hands as best he could while they were tied together. He glanced up into the mirror and saw his haggard reflection staring back at him. He had dried blood crusted around an ugly gash in his forehead, and chalky dried skin on his lips. He was a pale grey colour, most likely a result of the drug. He turned on the taps again and splashed cool water on his face and neck, not knowing if he would get another chance to feel clean again. Not caring whether or not the water was safe to drink, Patrick cupped his hands and gathered as much cold water as he could, drinking it greedily while he had the opportunity. While he was drying himself off his bodyguards started banging on the door and shouting at him to get out. Now! Patrick tried to delay his exit from the relative peace of the small bathroom but knew it was just a matter of time before the door would be yanked open and he would be dragged back out. Sighing heavily, he looked around for anything he could use to help himself in the future. He took a wad of paper towels and folded them quickly and put them in the pocket of his pants. He found some small packets of soap and toothpaste in a small compartment and took them as well. Turning his attention to the room itself, there were shelves and cupboards which were, unfortunately, empty. Fearing his time was almost up, Patrick quickly took to one of the shelves and tried to pry one of the screws loose, using the edge of his thumbnail as a tiny screwdriver. With much work and panic he managed to loosen it enough that with some vigorous turning he got one out and pocketed it before the door was almost torn off its' hinges by a very large and very angry man. Patrick pulled his hands up in front of his face and tried to protect his midsection with his elbows as a blow landed in his ribcage, knocking the air out of his lungs. As he began to crumple to the floor he was half dragged, half carried out of the tiny space and blindfolded with a thick black strip of cloth before he got a good look at his abductors. But he was free of the burlap sack! It was a very small victory but he was elated in the change in his condition as a prisoner. The bodyguards made a point of dragging him down the aisle in a way that caused him to be slammed into every seat on his way to the back of the jet. By the time they got back to their seats, Patrick was bruised and had a sharp pain in his ribs. Hoping it was just a bruise and not a broken rib, Patrick offered no resistance as he was once again forced into his seat and his hands were secured under the very tight seat belt once more. He had done all he could do under the circumstances. The rest of the trip would have to unfold as his captors had planned.

With no idea now how long it would be until the jet landed, Patrick decided to conserve his energy and try to sleep. Whoever took all this trouble to kidnap him obviously wanted him to live for a while yet. He might as well arrive at his destination well rested. Having made up his mind that he could do no more to ameliorate his situation, Patrick dozed lightly. His general discomfort and damaged ribs prevented a deep sleep but at least he could feel a bit more rested.

Some time later, as the sound of the engines changed in volume, he became aware of the jet dropping lower in the sky and banking slightly. He realized they were beginning their descent. Perhaps he would soon know just who was behind his abduction very soon. He just hoped that learning the identity of this person would not be the last thing he ever discovered.

Well at least whoever took Patrick seems to want him to arrive alive. Is he in America still, or did they fly overseas? When Teresa and the team at the FBI finally learn what has happened, it will take all of their efforts to find Patrick before his time runs out. Next chapter when I can manage it. Thank you for all the lovely reviews. They spur me on to write more each day!